Chapter 1: When the Mask Finally Cracked

Vroom!
Vroom!
Smash.

Fuck yes.
I smashed it.
I got it.
Just like that.

And I am so hard right now.

VROOOMMMMM.

Yeah, that’s me losing my mind on a stolen motorcycle, cracking windows like they’re bubble wrap.
Full black. Helmet on.
Police on my ass.
God knows where this ends today.

VROOOMMMMM.

So… hi.
My name’s Jason.
And yeah — I’m a sociopath.
Probably self-diagnosed, but let’s not get hung up on details.

Wee-oo, wee-oo, wee-oo.

They’re still behind me.
They don’t know it yet, but I think they got the message.

Here’s the funny thing:
Everyone thinks being a psychopath or sociopath makes you some apex predator.
But honestly?
It gave me more cognitive glitches than advantages.
And somehow, I’m one of the good ones.

Wild, right?

You’re probably wondering how we got here.
Cute.
I have no idea.

VROOOMMMMM.

Picture this: five cops behind me, nothing on me but a beat stick and bad intentions.
I love this shit — but jail? Nah.
So I cut into oncoming traffic, clipped a bumper, and lost them.
Barely.

I get home, panting, shaking, brain buzzing like a kicked beehive.
And then it hits me:

Why the hell did I do that again?

This is where that “cognitive deficit” part screws me.
My mind spirals.
Thoughts overlap.
No brakes.

I start smashing everything in sight just to feel like I’m back in control.
Chair across the room.
Remote into the TV.
And I’m literally begging—God, the devil, a demon, anyone—
“Please don’t let the cops come through my door.”

The TV flickers on.

Like a divine joke.

“Having a stressful time?
Feeling uncertainty in life?
Want a clearer, calmer lifestyle?
Call Holistic Therapy Associates.”

I go deadpan.
Then I smile.
Then I want to break the TV again.

I’ve tried therapy before.
It always went to shit.
Why would it work now?

But today was too close.
My carefully built mask — the whole “sanity” act — it almost shattered in public.
So fine.
Fuck it.
Therapy it is.

Later that week, I walk into the office of some therapist named Lisa.
Didn’t expect much… until I saw her.

Ridiculously attractive.
Blonde.
Thick, strict, glasses — the whole fantasy.
I swear God was trolling me.

Too on-the-nose.
Too perfect.
Too much.

I shake it off.
I’m here to fix my life, not fantasize.

She’s strict.
Stricter than anyone I’ve dealt with.
But therapy still felt like bullshit, so I finally snapped:

“Lemme guess — journaling? Worksheets?
Lady, when I walk down the street I get urges.
I’m itchy if I don’t act on them.
What the hell can you do for me, huh?”

(smug voice, obviously)

She just looks me up and down.
Smirks.
Pushes her glasses up.

“I get what you’re dealing with,” she says.
“Let’s start with this exercise.
It might become your coping mechanism.”

And that’s when the real story starts.